


Afterimage

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal Lecter, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Insecurity, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: There are a lot of new things Hannibal is learning about Will, now that they have leapt solidly and surely into the newly realized land of domestic bliss. All the ugliness, all the pain, all the spoiled beauty of their burned Eden was left behind, left to smolder and dissolve and be washed away by the sea. With bodies healed, eyes bright, they have begun their new journey to a revived promised land, rich with milk and honey and the greatest potential now: to learn each other, without outside influence, without disease, without famine and manipulation.





	Afterimage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [War_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/War_Queen/gifts).



> Written for this prompt: A hurt comfort story where Will is cuddled and taken care of by Hannibal and overall softness?? Idk maybe winter vibes and warm cuddles and declarations of devotion?? 
> 
> It turned a *little* more angsty than I had intended BUT I still liked writing it, and I think it's a really nice cuddly little moment for the boys post-fall. Hope y'all like it!

There are a lot of new things Hannibal is learning about Will, now that they have leapt solidly and surely into the newly realized land of domestic bliss. All the ugliness, all the pain, all the spoiled beauty of their burned Eden was left behind, left to smolder and dissolve and be washed away by the sea. With bodies healed, eyes bright, they have begun their new journey to a revived promised land, rich with milk and honey and the greatest potential now: to learn each other, without outside influence, without disease, without famine and manipulation.

There is one thing Hannibal has figured out recently, and it delights him to no end.

Will is a cuddler.

Of course, Hannibal is by no means inclined to reject or find aggravation in this fact. It pleases him greatly, to know that Will is just as eager to touch Hannibal as Hannibal is eager to be touched by him. And he has pressed gentle fingers to Will's face, his neck, held him close and ran warm hands over him often enough to recognize when Will leans into it, when his neck goes slack, eyes low-lidded when Hannibal reaches for him, eager to arch his back and purr.

It is, simply put, the sheer depth of Will's desire to be touched, the vast expansiveness of his need, that took Hannibal by surprise.

But Hannibal is adaptable, of course. He has done far more to accommodate Will's needs before, and so when Will presses up against his back while he's cooking, when Will pulls him to a halt and pets down his shoulder, his arm, when they trade places to and from the bathroom, when Will slides up next to him on the couch, cheek on his shoulder, Hannibal accepts these touches with grace and eagerness, for he would never allow Will to think he was unwelcome, in whatever capacity he chose to share his affection for Hannibal.

It is one such night – the air is frigid outside, frost painting the edges of the windows, a report on the radio calling for a storm later that night that will bring ice and hazardous driving conditions. They are in England, a sleepy town amidst rolling hills and fields still painted with lustrous greens despite the season. Their cottage is small, an intimate space, and there is a fire lit that casts golden and orange anti-silhouettes along the walls.

Hannibal emerges into their living room, two cups of steaming hot chocolate in his hands, and sets them down on the coffee table between the fire and the wide, heavy-set couch. The fabric is soft to the touch and reminds him of calfskin, the color of it a deep, deep brown.

Before he can even sit, Will is reaching for him, around his wrist, around his waist, and he pulls Hannibal down, and though the haste means Will's arm is trapped behind Hannibal's back, he makes no sound of protest – rather, one of relief. His cheek, fire-warmed and blushing pink, rests on Hannibal's shoulder. His legs curl, knees against Hannibal's thigh, his free hand sliding warm and covering the old scar on Hannibal's wrist. He sighs, tilts his head, teases Hannibal's jaw with a simple press of his shower-damp hair, quickly fluffing in the fire's heat, and shifts even closer, fingers of his other hand tightening on Hannibal's waist.

Hannibal turns his head, nuzzles Will's hair, breathes in his pomegranate shampoo. Will bought it when Hannibal had given it a curious sniff, a hum of pleasure. Will has deliberately, he realizes, changed his habits and his purchases to match things he's noticed Hannibal enjoys. Like a peacocking male, he has tried to make himself as enticing as possible to Hannibal's senses;

His sense of smell, pleased by Will's sweetness, his warmth – the sharpness of his sweat and the scent of his shampoo and deodorant.

Taste; he eats what Hannibal feeds him, flesh delightfully pink most days. When he goes for morning runs he returns and pulls Hannibal between his thighs and arches his neck until Hannibal cannot resist biting him, and gives a low moan of pleasure when he does. When he leaves marks.

Hearing – Will's voice has always been pleasant to Hannibal's ears, but he can go days in utter silence, only the slip of bare feet on the floor, the soft sigh of him against Hannibal's shoulder, the way he moans, cries ' _Hannibal, please_ ' when they go to bed. And so when he is more vocal, when they share in quiet conversation, it is as a symphony to Hannibal's ears.

Sight, the same. Will is beautiful. He could not possibly be more so, Hannibal thinks, and when he is sketching, and asks in silence for Will to go still, not to tremble, to simply let Hannibal draw, Will is the sweetest model for him, the most eager canvas when Hannibal's teeth and nails wish to replace the work his pencil has done.

Then, of course, touch. Always touching, eager and seeking and so sleek with his need. He arches, cat-like, purrs, catches his claws in Hannibal's clothes, in his skin, and fixes Hannibal with a look so tender and desperate whenever Hannibal has to pull away.

These realizations come quickly, in flashes that match the flicker of the flames. Hannibal turns, pushes at Will's shoulder and Will whines, low-lidded eyes sparking with impotent outrage. He paws, weakly, at Hannibal's sweatshirt and goes still when Hannibal smiles at him, wraps his fingers in Will's hair. Will's eyes lift, raw, ragged, and Hannibal kisses him.

Will's tongue presses into his mouth, eager as always – a gear shift change, a sudden collapse of the floor where Will goes from sweet to wanting, and he pushes himself to his knees, crawls close and prowls into place over Hannibal's thighs. Hannibal sighs against him, a pleased noise in his chest that Will lowers his head to bite at, like it's not real unless he can taste it for himself.

Hannibal reaches for the thick fleece blanket Will had over his shoulders, and wraps it around them both, so it covers Will's neck, his body, his feet and Hannibal's knees. He pulls it tight around both of them, cocooning them in darkness.

He robs Will of his sight.

"Will," he whispers, when Will's fingers flex and tense on his shoulders. He takes Will's wrists in gentle hands, brings his knuckles to his lips and kisses, and Will lets out a ragged, low noise, entire body rolling into the cavity he clawed into Hannibal's chest all those years ago, the place where his true home and hearth lies.

"Will," Hannibal says again, and Will snarls, snapping his teeth.

" _What_?" he demands.

Hannibal smiles, and he reaches out again, cups Will at the nape with one hand, collarbones with the other, and drags him down to a kiss that has Will whimpering, has him arching, this sweet and desperate thing like every inch between them is too much space, they aren't close enough.

Hannibal sighs, and lets the blanket fall back, revealing Will's flushed cheeks and dark eyes. With the fire at his back, he looks brash and deadly, the shine of his teeth and the whites of his eyes stark, and his knuckles are flexed and fine on Hannibal's chest.

Yet when he meets Hannibal's eyes, he smiles.

Hannibal touches Will's cheek. "Do you know how much, how utterly, I adore you?"

Will's eyes widen, and he rears back. A flash of hesitance, of reluctant pride, works its way across his face – first, tightening the corners of his eyes. Then, in the flare of his nostrils, down to the twitch of his mouth and exposed teeth. Finally, his jaw, as it clenches, bulges at the corner, as his neck flexes and rolls like he's trying to shake off a hand.

He breathes out, slowly, settles heavy on Hannibal's thighs, and offers a smile. "Yeah," he replies, softly. "I do."

In it, Hannibal hears 'If I didn't, I wouldn't be here'.

But that still feels...not wrong, but off, like a slightly off-center picture frame. Something isn't fitting quite right, and Hannibal tilts his head, drags his thumb along the flat corner of Will's mouth. Presses, seeking, and Will cannot help smiling and Hannibal's thumb slides into the dimple of his cheek. He shivers, licks his lips, at the look in Will's eyes.

So he tries again; "Do you understand how much I love you?"

Will's head tilts, catching the slightly different phrasing. He swallows, fingers flexing, drumming, on Hannibal's chest, before he looks away and curls his hands in his blanket, pulling it around him as though a shield.

"I understand that…" He pauses, clearing his throat, "It is a passionate love. An all-consuming one."

Hannibal hums, and flattens his hands on Will's thighs, finds them tensed up, wanting to pull together. Will shakes his head, sharply, and lets out a quiet, desperate sound. Hannibal lifts his eyes, meets Will's.

Tilts his head. "Passion is…fleeting," he says, cautiously. Will swallows. "It is a word given to the young, to the innocent and new, something that identifies the fervor of first love or sexual conquest. Not something everlasting."

"Stars die out," Will replies. "Everything dies out, eventually." He looks away again, to the windows. "It's almost winter."

"Will, look at me," Hannibal says. Will swallows, a stubborn thing, but relents when Hannibal sits forward, forces Will's arms to part for him, to wrap the blanket around them both. He searches Will's eyes, finds them dark, the shadow lending its garrison so that he cannot see what Will is thinking, for Will is hiding behind its gates.

He presses his lips together, and turns Will, suddenly, pressing him flat to the couch. Will gasps, wide-eyed, and Hannibal yanks the blanket from him, gives Will a single moment of chill as the air invades the exposed skin of his arms, his bare feet, his bitten-red neck. Will trembles, pushing himself back on the couch, looks at Hannibal with a supplicative whine.

Hannibal folds the blanket and sets it down on the far armrest, away from Will, and then he sits. He takes Will's cup of hot chocolate and hands it to him. "Drink," he says.

"Hannibal, please," Will murmurs, but takes the cup in white, frozen fingers. Despite the fire, he says, "I'm cold."

"This will help," Hannibal replies. He watches, and Will's eyes drop, his breath comes in through his teeth, shaky, but he takes a drink. Hannibal used dark chocolate to make it, adding sugar and homemade caramel per Will's tastes. He can see the moment Will registers the flavor, see him lower the cup, brow creasing, and then look at Hannibal with a small, hesitant smile.

"Did you buy this?" he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. "I made it," he replies. Will's shoulders go lax, his eyes softening with affection. "Just as I made dinner. Just as I stocked the fire, and did the laundry, and poured the wine."

He does not say it to inspire guilt, and knows Will does not take it that way. Rather, Will's head tilts, some sweet and piercing understanding crossing his ocean-deep eyes. He licks his lips, tongue swiping through the cling of chocolate there, and looks down at his hands.

"…Oh," he whispers.

His voice is heavy, and he shivers, taking another drink. His heels are pulled up, now, knees to his chest, shivering in the cold and Hannibal relents, has mercy on him, and Will sits up, eagerly, sets his cup to one side as Hannibal stands, grabs and unfolds the blanket.

"On your stomach, Will," he says.

Will obeys, a graceful arch of his body until he's lying down on his stomach, face turned towards the fire, hands tucked under his chest to protect him from the cold. Hannibal goes to him, one knee between Will's thighs, forcing them to spread, then he wraps the blanket around his own shoulders so that, as he lays down, both he and Will are cocooned and covered by it.

Will lets out a soft, happy noise, untucking his hands and placing them instead at his sides, folded up, so Hannibal can encase his flanks and shoulders and lace their fingers together. They lay together like that, in silence, Will's back rising to Hannibal's, until their breathing is in sync, Will breathing in when Hannibal breathes out. Will's spine has a natural curve, made to shape and mold itself to Hannibal's chest and belly, his hips placed perfectly where Hannibal's flesh yields again, the natural spread of his thighs a perfect fit for Hannibal's leg.

Will swallows, and even their fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. "I didn't mean to imply that I was unhappy," he says. "Or unsatisfied."

Hannibal knows this, yet; "Your dissatisfaction doesn't come from the present, darling, but the future. Still, you seek to see things that aren't there."

"But they could be there," Will says, soft and yet persistent. Always wanting to drive the point home. Will is the kind of killer that takes no pleasure in sadism – he kills with the express and explicit intent to kill, and always snaps the neck before he lets himself relax. "You courted a version of me that died on your kitchen floor, beside Abigail."

Hannibal sighs. "And the version of me you rejected, and threw into isolation, was cleansed on the cliffsides, by seawater and dragon blood."

That, surprisingly, makes Will laugh. His smile is wide, and he turns his head to brush his jaw along Hannibal's mouth, seeking a kiss – eagerly granted, as Hannibal cups his neck with their entwined hands and supports his head when they kiss.

Will sighs when they part, lowers his head and nuzzles the cushions beneath his cheek. His back arches, nape exposed, and Hannibal kisses the sweet, pink skin, rolls his body not to entice, not to stimulate, but to enforce his weight on Will, to reassure him with heat and softness.

Will shivers. "That night," he whispers, swallowing. Hannibal measures the flex of his throat beneath his lips. "That night was passionate."

And they have shared no night like it since. Will does not hunt with him, but when Hannibal returns, pristine because now more than ever they must be careful with DNA and blood trails, Will is savage with his need for touch. His violence comes in the spread of his warm hands, the cavalier treatment of Hannibal's clothes. Comes when he says 'Ignore the food, it's cold enough to keep, come with me' and pulls Hannibal between his thighs, puts Hannibal's neck between his teeth. It is in their bed that Will shows Hannibal that strongest red, the same color as blood in his teeth and fire in his eyes.

"That night is a memory," Hannibal replies. "A treasured, sacred one, but a memory nonetheless. Did you not tell me yourself that there are two worlds now – the one before I entered yours, and everything after?"

Will nods, his fingers tightening until his knuckles turn white.

"Mine is the same, Will," Hannibal breathes. "Only it is not 'before', and 'after'. Your entrance into it was the difference between dawn and midday. The change in seasons from spring to summer. And now it is always summer to me, because you are here."

Will turns his face away, clenches his eyes, clenches his jaw, hair falling forward. "I know you're not lying," he says, and that is all he says.

Hannibal smiles, though it's sad. "But you believe there is a time when that will not be true anymore," he finishes. Will sucks in a breath. "That you might fall from my favor, is that it?"

"You've already created an imago of me, more times than I can count. There's not enough space inside me for both of us," Will breathes. "And you have chiseled, and carved, and gutted me in my entirety. If you leave, I will be just a hollow shell."

 _Neither of us can survive separation_.

Hannibal rears back and Will lets out a soft, aching sound, only to go quiet when Hannibal takes him by the hips and forces him to roll over. Their legs tangle, a shift of weight and blankets and then Will is on his back, reaching for him, and Hannibal falls against him again, sliding his hands below Will's shoulders, Will's face to his neck and Hannibal's cheek at his hair. Will's knees lift, thighs bracketing, bearing Hannibal's weight and he shivers, exposing his throat, clenching his hands in Hannibal's shirt beneath the blanket.

Will is stirring beneath him, subtly arching, his mind and his senses too fine-tuned to Hannibal's weight to stop the reaction. Hannibal smiles, kisses Will's flushed neck, takes a tight hold of Will's shoulders and rolls his hips. Will gasps, thighs tensing up, stomach sinking in.

"Hannibal," he breathes, and Hannibal lets go with one hand, tugs the blanket up and over their heads, shutting off the light, blinding them both and Will goes still, trembling, clutching at him. Hannibal wraps a hand in his damp hair, tugs his head back, bites gently along the flexing tendon of his throat. Will's hands claw weakly, always desperate to touch, and he pulls Hannibal's t-shirt up to bare warm skin. His nails catch on the knotted scar tissue of the bullet hole in his abdomen and Hannibal snarls.

"You see the expression of my love for you as things that need escalation," he says, low and growling against Will's neck as Will arches up against him, heels in the couch, gasping. "There may be a time when feeding you isn't enough. When touching you isn't enough."

Will trembles, but doesn't deny it.

"Are you projecting, darling?" Hannibal asks, going still. He lets Will cling to him, grind up against him, merely settles and lets Will touch and soak himself in Hannibal as much as he desires. Will moans, his hard cock rutting gracelessly against Hannibal's stomach, the weak stutter of his hips and the rush of his pulse making Hannibal's chest clench warmly. "Am I not enough for you?"

"No, no," Will says, and shakes his head vehemently. "No, you're perfect, you're perfect -."

He goes still, too riled, too raw, to hold back. Hannibal's nostrils flare, mouth flooded with saliva at the scent of Will's release – sugared lemons and mint with dark chocolate, sweetened enough to be palatable thanks to Hannibal's diligent attention to his diet. Will shakes beneath him, his hands sliding down Hannibal's flanks, seeking weight, and Hannibal presses against him, lets Will feel the heated tension in his stomach, the ache of his own erection, ignored for now. Will is warm and wet between his legs, and moans when Hannibal sucks a mark to his neck.

The sting of Will's tears catches his attention, next, and he lets out a rumble, drags his nose up Will's scruffy cheek until he finds the first one and wipes it clean. He cups Will's face, presses his thumb to Will's jaw so Will cannot turn away, and pushes the blankets back.

Will's cheeks are red, his eyes shining and wide. He swallows, parts his lips and lifts his chin, and Hannibal smiles, leans down to kiss him gently, drinking down Will's ragged breath and sated moan.

"If I am perfect," he says, when they part, "then it's because you made me so, for your influence on me is as undeniable as the change of the seasons and the scars we both bear. And if you insist, my darling, beloved Will, that I will not change in your eyes, you must accept that you will not change in mine, either."

Will swallows again, touches gently at Hannibal's jaw, down his neck. His fingers are steady, now, warm to the touch, and Hannibal tilts his head and lets Will pet him, watches Will's eyes darken and his expression goes lax.

Then, Will's hands slip lower, sink beneath the waistband of Hannibal's lounge pants and Hannibal growls, bowing his head to kiss Will's flushed, scarred cheek as Will's warm, callused hand wraps around him.

"Promise me something," Will whispers.

"Anything," Hannibal gasps.

Will smiles, tightens his hand, slides his grip up. Thumbs, gently, at Hannibal's leaking cockhead. "Take me hunting with you, next time," he says, purrs it, and tilts his head because he knows, he knows Hannibal wants to bite, and Hannibal does.

"You don't have to prove anything to me," he says, hips rolling, slow.

Will laughs, sweet and soft. "It's not about worthiness, Hannibal," he whispers, and threads his free hand around Hannibal's nape, through his hair. Tugs, forcing their eyes to meet, their foreheads, noses, lips brushing. "I don't like it when you're gone."

"Then stay with me," Hannibal says, begs, claws fervently at Will's hair, at his thigh, up his flank. "Stay."

Will swallows, nods, and gives Hannibal's cock another tight stroke. His thighs tense and he leans up, kisses Hannibal fiercely, that red rage and white-hot need, the fire burning them; Will's weight, the heaviness of his breathing, pulling Hannibal in like gravity.

He bites, sharp, on Hannibal's lower lip and Hannibal trembles, shoulders to hips, snarls, and fucks into Will's fist as he comes, and Will laughs, high and full of pleasure, pushes Hannibal's cock up so that he comes into the sag of his t-shirt and doesn't dirty Will's clothes. His hand wraps around the fabric, tugging and tight, and Hannibal growls, kisses his beautiful love again.

Will breaks the kiss with a gasp, lashes fluttering, and Hannibal huffs, pushing the blanket back, unbearably warm.

Will eyes slide away, and he gives a small smile, a gentle laugh. "The drinks got cold."

Hannibal smiles, and leans down to kiss Will again. "I'll reheat them."

"No," Will says, grabbing firmly at Hannibal's hips, tightening his thighs and forcing Hannibal to remain where he is. "I've got you right where I want you." Hannibal laughs again, joy catching in his chest and spreading like wildfire, like a gathering pool of blood, and in Will's eyes, he shines.

He settles down over his beloved, smiles as Will tucks his face to his neck, and pulls the blanket over them both again.


End file.
